Goodbye, friend of a friend
by Just-LiveLaughLove
Summary: Neither of them breaks the silence with the words that hang by a noose around them. Stiles supposes that there isn't much to say anyway. Not anymore / Allison is gone, but the nightmares remain. Stiles/Lydia. Stiles/Scott. Stiles/Malia
1. Chapter 1

** Goodbye, Friend of a Friend**

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><p>He has nightmares.<p>

Consecutively. Every fucking night he's tearing away at his blanket. Falls onto his bedroom floor – clutching at his chest. _It was just a dream. _He says into the empty space of his darkened room _it was just a dream_.

It's become a habit, really. The first instinct has the boy running to his father's room. Creaking open the door to peer inside. Make sure the sheriff is there. _Breathing_ and very much alive.  
>Then, it's his hands. Holding them out in front of him, he checks for blood and counts ten shaky fingers.<p>

Little has the boy grown to know, the real nightmare is met when he opens his eyes and sees that this is his life.

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><p><em>Now, now sweetheart. Don't you worry your precious little mind, mother isn't going anywhere.<em>

But mother did go, and she never came back.

_'My darling boy. My brave little soldier' _Her hand, ashen and brittle reached out to the young child and he held onto her like vice. Tried to preserve that very moment. To keep her landed just a little bit longer_.' You stay strong and you keep on smiling. Smiles mend broken hearts, remember?'_

He tries to find the means to smile, now; he's even practiced it in the mirror. Though, lately, looking at his reflection frightens him beyond compare. The eyes that stare back at him hold the secrets he's tried to bury. And when that reflection smiles, a menacing, destructible smile, he feels those memories unfurl beneath his skin like poisoned thorns that take root in his heart.

"Smiles mend broken hearts."

"Stiles?" The sheriff is slipping into his black overcoat. The starkness of the colour ages him; the world itself is mourning after all.

"If they can mend hearts, can they make them beat again?" Stiles tears his eyes away from the ghosts walking behind the curtains of his window, and looks up to his father with hazel eyes that are coated by a wall of tears. "Can it bring someone back?"

His father clenches his jaw and reaches his son in three long strides.

"Stiles, Allison's death is not – "

"No," Stiles interjects half heartedly. Speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "They wouldn't."

The teenager turns around again and starts searching for someone beyond the sheet of glass, "there's no point smiling then. Absolutely no point at all."

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><p>Scott stands at the very front, right beside Mr. Argent. Isaac takes his place to the left. It's a pathetic picture really. Two werewolves and a hunter, mourning over a life that barely lived.<p>

Even the trees hang their necks forward, trying to peer over the shoulders of those who stand around a six foot deep hole. The scent of the fresh earth tickles the back of Lydia's throat.

But it's when the casket is lowered into the ground and everyone takes up the shovel, one by one, to sprinkle some soil over the mahogany wood, does she feel the urge to scream.  
>It's an entirely different reason, she knows. But it doesn't quell the banging in her chest and the fire in her stomach that rages on and on, like the storm brewing above them.<p>

Some distant relatives, that Allison's never mentioned, step forward and make their peace before handing over the shovel. By the time it reaches Isaac, the rain falls in feather light sheets.

"She was a girl who could make even the loneliest feel whole." Isaac murmurs, sprinkles her with earth and then offers it to Stiles.

Lydia sees the boy, once filled with an insufferable ability to see _good_, fall into a state of almost-hysteria. He bites down, shakes his head and steps behind his father who only broadens his shoulders. Warding off the thought of anyone asking him again. So Lydia steps forward, offers a small smile to the sheriff and speaks to her deceased friend.

"Allison was a girl of incredible devotion and mind blowing stubbornness. She became so much more like my sister in our years of friendship. And now I hope to live in her image."

Scott takes it next, lets those same tears fall down to find the place inside the grave with Allison. The mere thought breaks Stiles' heart in two. _I did this_. He thinks solemnly. _I killed my brothers' girl._

"She, I – found the very ground beneath my feet, the day Allison said she loved me. Because it was as simple as that, she loved me and I loved her. And there will never be a day I won't think of her."

Scott and Chris share a moment, before he takes a stand right by the headstone that has stolen his little girl's name. "She was a girl of barely seventeen. And yet, she amounted to so much. Became a beacon of strength, heroism and laughter." Chris Argent looks up and speaks to everyone the final words of truth.

"Here lies Allison Argent: a friend, a girlfriend, _my daughter_. Our hero."

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><p><em>Weeks stretch into months. Time lulls on, painfully slow. But it continues, just like mother said it would.<em>

On a night when the moon hangs low and a painful howl splits through the trees of the forest, a human boy find his werewolf friend.

Stiles sits by him, not too close though. There's only so much either of them can take.

"Isaac says you've been MIA." Stiles murmurs, looking out over the expanse of their town sleeping below them.

Scott's voice is clipped, though, if you listen closely, there's that familiar dose of affection there. One he reserves for Stiles alone, "So have you."

Stiles bows his head and wrings his fingers together.

Finally, when the air is stale and thick, Stiles whispers, "I'm sorry, Scott. I am _so sorry_ for Allison."

Scott takes a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw twitching feverishly at the brokenness of his friend's voice. Stiles swallows salty tears as he is rendered speechless by the apologies collecting in his throat.

"I know," comes Scotts reply and this time his voice is softer. Careful.

"I know you blame yourself Stiles." Scott speaks into the night before looking straight into his friend's eyes for the first time in _months_. What Stiles sees makes his heart falter. "You shouldn't. It wasn't your fault, dude."

Stiles wants to explain, tell his brother, that all of this suffering _is because of him_.

"And I know I haven't exactly made you feel that way." The werewolf's voice cracks and it takes everything in Stiles' (human) power to refrain from pulling Scott into an overdue hug.  
>"But, I'm going to need some time before I can… look or speak to you. I hate that it hurts you. And I am sorry… Stiles,"<p>

This time Stiles hand reaches out and silences his friend with a mere touch to the shoulder. Though Scott's words tear him to shreds, it's not about him. So he shoves the pieces of his solitude deep into his pockets. Leaves them there to rot.

"I know." Stiles says simply, squeezing Scotts shoulder for some measure of sincerity. "Take all the time you need."

Scott manages to smile, and wordlessly, both look out to the moon once more and silently brush the exterior to their old habits.

Neither of them breaks the silence with the words that hang by a noose around them.

Stiles supposes that there isn't much to say anyway.

Not anymore.

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><p>Malia is a girl of untamable beauty and veracious power. She smiles in places where Stiles cannot bring himself to mimic the expression. But she waits for him, patiently.<br>There are days she will see him slipping away inside himself. Being dragged into the cruelty fanned by fire in his own mind. So, she'll slip her fingers into his hands; become a tether that will reel him back. But, even she knows, the talisman that holds the properties to his salvation sits in the abyss of Lydia Martins heart. But for now, she stays with him.

"Shhh" Malia whispers, head tilting back as she rolls herself against him. Bracing her arms against Stiles chest as his hips buck upward to meet each of her thrusts.  
>He almost laughs, running his hands up her legs to find a place on her hips, guiding her movements.<p>

"I think it's you - " he grunts, trailing fingers up against her waist to graze the underside of her breasts. Biting back a moan when she flutters around him, "who needs to stay quiet."  
>She chuckles and the sound alone makes his heart plummet into a sprint.<p>

He's missed the sound of laughter.

Her nails bite into the skin stretched over his ribs with playful vigor, "Is that so," she murmurs, purposefully clenching around him. Flipping her hair so it falls to one side. Daring him on.

_She's stunning_, he thinks, sitting naked on top of him. Pearl skin glistening with sweat.

_Beautiful creature, yes. And she's wasting her time on a man like you. _The thought fogs his mind like a blackening mist, it converges on him. Presses down on his lungs, for a second the boy thinks he's choking.

"Stiles?" Malia gently calls his name, dragging him out from the gloom, gazing down at him with soft eyes. He forces a small smile to quell the look of worry from the crease in her brow.  
>"It's nothing," he mumbles. Snatching up her hands and sitting up between her limber, transformative legs. "It's alright." He breathes against her flesh, though, his voice seems harsher. Brimmed with an edge of roguish malice.<p>

The coyote misses it completely when Stiles lips close over her pulse point and sucks on the flesh until he tattoos her there with a small token of affection. Both of them grinning graciously each time the bed squeaks with their movements, laughing into the coolness of the night. Her thighs press against his torso, her little cries collecting in the crook of his neck as her arms wrap across his shoulders, cradling his head against her chest. Nipping the lobe of his ear when the corn like silk of his hair brushes over her. Shivering with every hot breath he fans down her breasts.

He licks a long languid line up her neck before grazing his teeth over her chin, shuddering when Goosebumps erupt over her cinnamon flesh."Oh god" she bites out, squeezing her knees tighter around him at the feel of Stiles pulsating deep within her.

_'God?'_ a dark part of him chuckles ominously. _'Such a foolish foolish prospect'_ Stiles frightens from its unbidden thought that ghost over the entirety of his body. He feels strange, like something with a mind unreservedly its own, has sought to take residency in his. It slithers through his veins – constricts around his heart and bleeds him dry.

The boy squeezes his eyes shut _This isn't happening. Not again. Notagainnotagainnotagain!_ He bites down on his lip till the metallic taste of blood warms his tongue. It doesn't alleviate the pending fear that wraps around his wrists and neck like rusted shackles.

Stiles becomes stagnant, but still caught in the euphoria and missing the rhythmic slide of his fiery heat, Malia doesn't open her eyes when she asks, "you ok?"  
>"Poor little shifter girl," the words crawl out on their own accord. His voice darker, daunting. The words rumble through his system, seeping into the girls pores like tendrils of smoke.<br>Malia pulls away, only slightly, to look into his eyes. "What?" She breathes. Breathless. Then, with eyes glinting wildly, he suddenly pulls his body up onto his knees, and seamlessly switches their positions, throwing the girl down onto her back. Trapping her supple frame beneath the rigid contours of his body. Plunging back into her a little too harshly it makes the girl cry out.

He kisses away her pain, guilt piercing him with acidic daggers. "I'm sorry," he whispers when sense comes crashing back into him. He continues with trembling urgency, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
>When the stinging pain subsides Malia leans up to snatch his lips with her own, desperate to silence his apologies with the slide of her tongue and the touch of their teeth.<p>

Sighing wistfully when Stiles tucks an arm underneath the arch of her back, enjoying the friction of his hair tickling her taught flesh as he pulls her impossibly closer.  
>Both of them gradually falling back into the harmless habit of fucking.<p>

He sheaths himself inside of her, groaning when he reaches the hilt, pressing her into the mattress with the heat of his weight as he rocks himself gently inside of her. Coaxing her towards completion.  
>It's intoxicating. To be cloaked in the warm wetness of her. Coated in her safety that could make Stiles ease into a peaceful lieu, but today, she's entertaining a beast wearing her boyfriends face.<br>And neither of them knows it.

Stiles kisses up her neck again, just like the night of their arrest. Barred inside the walls of insanity where the nigitsune could prey on the weak.  
>His breathing becomes more erratic when his vision becomes warped. Head spinning from induced vertigo. Malia's moans fill the space between them, though they're distant, morphing into a muted silence. His body feels like lead. Heavy and immobile. The familiarity of this dwindling sensation scars his throat by a scream that is dragged back down.<p>

His pockets are full of stones and he's being pulled under and this time, he can't breach the surface...

"Malia." The voice is his. Yet not at all.  
>A hand (Stiles' hand) reaches down and forces itself between their bodies to the point where they are joined. Presses down against her clit; swallowing her squeal of surprise with an aggressive kiss that's all power and control.<p>

"So beautiful." The man, now monster, speaks softly. Like a forbidden lover. "So, changeable - incredible. Powerful." As he speaks, he relinquishes his exquisite torture and raises his hand to map out the lines of her body. Lazily swirling a finger around her nipple that makes her shiver.  
>He doesn't stop there though, what he does next, has Stiles thrashing against his restraints.<br>His hands creep around the base of her throat, rubbing it with alluring fragility to which the girls leans into willingly. Slowly, discreetly, his fingers curl deeper. The angled protrusion of his hip bones bruises her. The suffocating heat of him proving to be more worrisome than the hand wrapped around her neck. Almost.

"Stiles," Malia's fingers wrap around his wrist, "Stiles you're hurting me."  
>He doesn't respond, barely even looks at her and squeezes harder. Relishing in the strangled yelp he plucks from her lips.<br>"Stiles," she says a little more urgently.  
>"Poor little, Coyote." His voice spirals in the small space between them, settling over her flesh like blisters. "Wandered too far from home, have we? Trying to borrow yourself away from your dirty little past" his fingers squeeze, cutting off her circulation with a cruel downturn of his lips. Tsking, like he were ashamed of her efforts.<br>"Stiles?" Her nails puncture his skin, desperately trying to pry away his lethal lock. Her other hand digging into the corded muscles at his shoulder.

_STOP!_ A helpless cry echoes in the recesses of Stiles mind.

_Now now Stiles, _comes a hollow response. _Don't deny it. You crave it. You want this._

_No, please! Just let her go.  
><em>  
>He loosens his grip, just enough to let her breathe.<p>

"Shhh" he hushes her panic (and the boys), bunching his hips forward, peppering butterfly kisses over her face with false tenderness.

She cringes away from his touch and futilely uses both hands to push him away: enough for her to twist from beneath him. But a hand to her navel repudiates the simple act and he pushes her back into the bed. Malia, in a surge of defiance, reaches her hands out in an attempt to claw away the smug downward grin he's wearing. The man occupying Stiles body only turns his head away, dodging her strikes before his own hand snaps out and wraps around her wrists, pinning them down above her head effortlessly.

She tries to speak again and pulls against him, but non-Stiles uses his other hand to find a place around her throat once more. Surely gifting her a necklace fashioned by his viciousness.  
>"Stiles!" Malia grits this time, her eyes drowning in fear. And oh, how he savours it on his tongue when he nips her lower lip and drags away painfully slow.<p>

She snaps her teeth, now sharpened for the kill, "get off of me!" She growls and this makes the merciless beast howl with gruesome laughter.  
>The girl doesn't abide by its hilarity; instead, with strained effort, she brings her knees up between them, and drives it straight into his groin.<br>Monster or no, he is a man after all. He grunts and barely loosens his grip, though it's enough for the girl to propel him away from her with all the force she can muster. Now, free from the confinement of his muscular strength, Malia rolls off the bed instantly. Runs for the door, hands fumbling for the handle and just as she manages to swing it open, Stiles arm slams it shut from behind her. His breathing, now completely controlled and calculated (just like his acts of manipulation) fans down the expanse of her back.  
>She's petrified; cowardly she presses her front into the wood, tries to hide away her nakedness. The Nigitsune gingerly reaches around her, decisively presses his chest against her while the pad of his calloused fingers trace the purpling flesh of her throat.<p>

His knuckles curl under her chin, tormenting in its delicacy. He's giving an illusion of choice, but there's no choice. Not tonight. So, obediently, she faces him. Channels everything wild and feral about her and settles her eyes on him. Heavy with disgust and misplaced trust.

"Get the fuck out of Stiles!"

The nigitsune raises inquisitive eyebrows, "so the little coyote has herself a sharp little tongue." He reaches out and tucks a strand of matted hair behind her ear. The girl bars her teeth and slashes his forearm with readied claws fit for slaughter. He hisses, snatching his hand back to inspect the bleeding wound.  
><em><br>Just leave her alone!_ Stiles cries from his prison_. Just leave her the fuck alone!  
><em>  
>Eyes powdered with a touch of blue and red, the fox looks at her and laughs a cold thunderous laugh that matches the madness in his eyes.<br>"I see why he likes you." He speaks, low, gravelly. He raises the injured arm and leans it against the door frame, right beside her head. A line of red trickling down his arm and down over his pale chest. He's cast in moonlight, eyes draped in shadows. He's a horror story tucked inside a teenage boy and his taunting ways only cripple the possibilities of hope. "But we both know," he husks, "you're not who he wants. Who he _needs_." He leans in, eyes donned in a patronizing gleam of sadness.

"No. Not you." He repeats. Touching her lips.

"He's waiting for the banshee girl. So for now, these lips will suffice. For now, he will seek refuge in the delicious little place cradled between your thighs." He skims hand lower for affect and it works perfectly. All the emotions, the fear, sadness, worthlessness. All of them amalgamate around her and he ravishes it. Becomes drunk on her imbalance.  
>But he wants more. Craves the annihilation of everything. So, he terrorizes her further. And feeds off everything the child whimpering inside him feels.<p>

_Don't_. Comes Stiles vanishing voice. _Don't you dare touch her._  
><em>Too late for that,<em> the monster muses. He cranes his neck to catch the girls eyes again, "but. You realize. All you are is an obstacle. And Stiles wants you gone as soon as possible so he can pursue his true heart's desire."

_Don't listen to him._ Stiles screams, to no avail. The words bounce off empty walls and all he can do is watch the beast pull the girl apart at the seams. Till there's nothing left but a desolating numbness.  
>"So I suppose" his guttural voice continues, " the only thing left to do is help him get to the finish line quicker. Which – such an unfortunate waste for you – requires the ending of your story."<p>

When Stiles understands what this fox means, he buckles. Tries to will the arm moving towards his desk still. Heedless of his resistance, the Nigitsune's fingers close around a pair of scissors and when Malia catches the silver moonlight glinting off the skin of the blades, she tries to run with her heart in her mouth. He only catches her around the waist and slams her back into the wall. Locks her down with the lean frame he is commandeering.  
>"Wait. No. Stiles if you can hear me. Please don't - don't do this. Please <em>Stiles<em>. Don't let him do this to me!'  
>Stiles shrieks. Pounds against the walls he cannot see. Begs, pleads, bargains with the fox stealing yet another life. But the thousand year old creature is malevolent, sadistic. <em>Hungry<em>. And with a morbid smile, he plunges the paper cutters into Malia's side. And Stiles swears, when her blood pours, he can feel the weight of it on his hands. Smells her death and tastes it on his tongue like burning sulfur.

When Malia's lifeless body falls to the ground with a resounding thump, Stiles jolts. Throat scathed from screaming, he finds himself tangled in his own wet sheets. Crashing to the floor, adjusting his eyes in the darkness, to see he's in his room. A sleeping Malia resting quietly on the edge of his bed by the wall.

Tenaciously, he reaches over and holds his hand under her nose, sighs in relief when her steady breaths kiss his palm. And once he's counted ten trembling fingers, he grabs his jacket and keys and disappears into the night.

TBC

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><p><strong>Hello everybody, been a while since I've been on here. This is hopefully going to be a three part story. Just know, it won't be a very happy one and will contain heavy 'void!stiles scenes.<br>It's very much a means of mourning the loss of Allison that I feel they've brushed over in the series... but not much we can do about it I suppose.**

**Are you guys liking the latest season of Teen Wolf? I'm kinda sitting on the fence and that kinda saddens me... ANYWAY, leave a review/critique, it's always appreciated.**

**on another note, my 'The stars never stay and neither do you.' fic hasn't been forgotten, I'm just searching for the inspiration to finish the next chapter... which I won't lie, is posing to be a little bit of a threat.**

HAPPY HOLIDAYS! (if you're on holidays, if not, I feel bad for ya son.)


	2. Chapter 2

This chapter is going to be fairly slow. Next one will contain a little bit more strong language and sexual themes.

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><p><strong>Run, and don't look back<strong>

_You have no shadow in the dark._

Somehow, it's oddly comforting to the boy staggering through the forest, arms crossed over his shoulders in hope that it will warm his body. He tries to drag his feet behind him but the dropping temperature only weighs him down.  
>His teeth chatter and a part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of it. His jeep is somewhere, wrapped around a tree and here he is, a dizzy fool – drunk on the idea he might find something <em>someone<em> out here in the darkness. Instead he comes by a lake. Eerily still, he mistakes it for a mirror and dares to look upon its crystal surface, that glints softly in the starlight. And what he sees rakes the skin of his heart. For the first time in _years_ – before the full moon greeted his best friend into the world of werewolves and humans-turned-reptilian with blood in its teeth – he catches a glimpse of the boy he used to be.

"Stiles," his name is whispered from somewhere within the shadows. Realising only now, that he's waist deep in the water and though he may not feel the cold, he is aware his body is shutting down. No longer shivering to ward off the chill.  
>"Stiles…" The voice swirls in the forest wind, glazing over the water, like skin, before burrowing into his chest. <em>It can't be…<em>

"Stiles."

He whips his heads from side to side, the water breaking around him as he looks for the ghost girl. "Allison?!"

"…Stiles,"

"Allison! Alli –" his voice is distorted by the water, but in his hope, in his _audacity_ to _believe_, he continues to call her name, unconcerned that he's barely above the lakes surface. He'll drown and he doesn't care. "Allison! Scott needs you…" the only response is the kind of silence that can manifest with the loss and despair living in your soul, and steal the air around you.

There's movement in the water, drawing near, but he cannot see it. Not when he's pulled entirely under, feet unable to reach the ground and water beginning to invade his lungs with ruthless abandon. He forces his eyes open seeing he's surrounded, yet again, by darkness. Only this time, small ribbons of moonlight scatter within the body of water; cascading like fairy dust and somehow, he sees beauty in it. The Quiet serenity of drowning.

When the last of the air is expelled from his lungs, he feels two hands looping under his arms and just as suddenly as he was grabbed, he's torn out of the water. Body dragged over the rivers bed. Short little pants brushing his forehead, emitted by his rescuer. He can feel the heat radiating off the body, kneeling down and pressed beside his thigh. Can feel silk-like fingers grazing, and gripping and slapping his cheek in a futile attempt to wake him. He stirs and the sound of utter relief that dances off the persons' tongue makes his heart swell. "Allison…" he murmurs the name once more, before his head lulls to the side, just in time to hear a confused, "Allison?" followed by a worrisome, "Shhhh, it's okay. You're going to be fine."

Before unconsciousness pulls him under, he sees a wisp of fiery red hair carried on the breath of the forest and hears his name on her lips. And somehow, closing his eyes doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore. Her voice sounds like home.

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><p><em>People say when you're on the verge of death your life flashes before your eyes; a myriad of broken words and scattered smiles shuttering behind your eyelids. Then, by some grace, when you open your eyes, you're surrounded by a soft glow of winter white and all your worries, all the ties that held you down, fall away.<em>

And for a fleeting moment. Stiles thought he had met his end. Christ, how he'll wish he had, for what happens next splits his soul in two.

The heat of artificial light thrums against his face: dragging him from his dreamless sleep. It's odd, he thinks sullenly; how this is probably the first night he's had without being plagued by the malicious deeds he was forced to enact. He runs a hand down his face, wincing when he feels the needle move beneath his flesh. A chill running down his spine in remembrance of what'd happened last night.

"What were you thinking Stiles?" he tears his eyes away from the drip hanging above his head and looks to the girl sitting on the chair across the room. "Lydia?"

"What. Were. You. Thinking?" He gives a feeble shake of his head and shrugs his shoulders, unable to hold her gaze.  
>"How did you even know where I was?" He asks. Pulling himself into a seated position.<br>"I got a call from Malia, and I just… I _felt_ _cold_."

The boys' heart rate monitor spikes. Somewhat frightened – he just cannot figure out why. Her brows remain pulled together, resting her chin on her thumb and forefinger. Biting on her lower lips as she scans the ceiling. She's had her fair share of hospital nights and Stiles knows what it means for her to be here again. But, here's the thing; she knows what it means for him to be here too.

"Lydia – you can go home." Stiles breaks the silence.  
>She tilts her head away and it's only after she's pressed her lips into a thin line, does he notice that her eyes are glistening.<p>

"Lyds, –"

"You said Allisons' name…"

It's as if the air around them thickens and solidifies in their lungs: neither of them can breathe.

"Lydia, you should go home." His voice trembles. His fingers shake.

"But you said her name," she stands and he cowers, "and I should have cried. But I was – Stiles, I …" She's at a loss for words and when it becomes too much, she sits at the foot of his bed. And takes nine deep breaths. On the ninth, Lydia rests her tearful eyes on the wounded boy, _and that look_, it's one you wear when you're about to inflict pain in spite of the heart you hold.

"When you said her name. I was filled with anger. Hatred." Her eyes continuously flit away from his and it makes him uneasy. Frightens him more than anything he's come to face.

"When I look at you – I see Allison. Dead. It was all you Stiles, it begun with you because your weakness set that monster free. And I know – _I know_, I shouldn't think that. I know it wasn't really _you_."  
>She refuses to look at him, she knows she would crumble if she were to see the tears that fall over his lashes despite his efforts to hold them in.<p>

"But that's what I see. I see Aiden, choking on his own blood. I remember that I wasn't there for her. If you hadn't had let him in, set that monster free… Allison, my _best friend_, might still be alive."

She's brought to life everything he's come to fear – held up the mirror and revealed the truth that walks beside him like a shadow tainted red. She sets her eyes on him now, lets him see how despondent and heartbroken she is at what has transpired. He can see the apology falling down in her tears, "and I don't think I could ever forgive that."

He chokes, something heavy and immovable resting on his chest and he forgets what it means to be at peace. He misses his mother. He misses his friend – he misses smiling.  
>"I'm sorry, Stiles."<br>When he doesn't answer; because he just cannot find it in himself to speak, Lydia stands and begins for the door. Digging nails into her palms the further away she walks and doesn't glance back. Not once.

Just as she's disappeared from sight, Stiles presses the heel of his palms into his eyes and _cries_. Cries for the lost affection he needs now from the mother he adored. Cries about the loneliness that has now become his only friend that is clinging to his core. Cries, _cries_ – because he doesn't see the point of being strong anymore.

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><p>"Dad," Stiles calls out to his father sitting at the kitchen table. With only one lamp to brighten the room. The sheriff looks up to his son and gives a small smile before removing his glasses. "Hey, champ."<br>Stiles hesitates at the sink before seating himself opposite his Father. The seat he always sat whenever his father would try decoding evidence in an investigation. Sometimes, that is all Stiles would do; sit there with his father and refill the cup whenever it emptied.  
>"What's wrong kid? You okay?"<p>

"Dad. I … I think it's time I..." Stiles has never been one to struggle for words and that alone makes the Sheriffs heart break in two. "I don't remember the last I smiled and I miss it."

"I miss it too." His father interrupts. "I miss your smile." When he can see the turmoil in his sons eyes. He sets a cup in front of him and fills it to the rim with some juice. "Step me through it. Tell me what you're afraid to ask."

"I feel lost here. Scott, Lydia, Malia. Everyone…"  
>He listens as Stiles' words tangle. Takes notice of how his unruly hair hides away the eyes that once held so much emotion. How his cheeks have hollowed out and how the purple around his eyes have yet to fade. "I'm an outsider to them and myself, and I don't remember what it's like to be happy. I think I need to… I think I have to –"<p>

"Leave?" His father completes and there is no anger or disappointment in his tone. Just the selfless ability to bring some essence of understanding. "Move away?"  
>Stiles nods and slowly explains, "But I think I have to do it alone."<p>

The sheriff hangs his head and presses his fingers into his eyes, breathing deep before asking, "And you think that this will help you? Help you move on and get better?" Not completely knowing himself, Stiles answers, "Yeah. I think so."

His words are heavy with loss, but the sheriffs eyes move up and rest on the boy before he forces himself to say, "Then son, you pack your bags, straighten your shoulders and find your happiness again."

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><p>"Stiles,"<p>

"Yeah Dad?" Stiles looks to his father leaning against the door frame. As though he desperately needs the support. He can barely stand on his own two feet. Especially when he watches his son, emptying his drawers and packing his life away into a small suitcase.  
>"I just," He breathes, trying to repress all the memories that render him speechless. "I want you to know, that I am so proud of the man you've grown to be. I am proud of you and I love you and I wish…" His voice breaks and he stands a little straighter when he continues, "I wish your mother were here to see you now. To see what I see."<p>

Stiles doesn't try hiding the tears, instead he abandons his packing and walks till he's directly in front of the man who raised him. "Thanks Dad. Everything good you see in me. It's all you."  
>The older man sniffles before laughing, it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's a laugh nonetheless and helps Stiles breathe easier. "You should get to bed. Early rise tomorrow morning. I can drive you to the airport."<p>

"It's okay Dad. I already called the taxi." The boy assures, wiping the bridge of his nose. But the Sheriff doesn't budge, he tries again, "Would you please let me take you?"  
>"If I let you," Stiles whispers, "I don't think I would be able to get on the plane." He's the one to laugh this time as his father agrees, "I probably wouldn't let you on it either."<p>

With one last lingering glance, the Sheriff says, "Goodnight son."  
>And with a lump in his throat, Stiles murmurs, "Goodnight, Dad."<p>

* * *

><p><em>Mother always used to tell him that with every morning, there's a new beginning. And with every night, there are memories to keep you warm. <em>

"Stiles wait!"

When the boy turns around, his heart leaps. He tried sneaking off in the morning to save his father the heartache of another goodbye. But in the early hours of sunlight, he sees his dad and in his hand, Stiles sees his pillow. "I know," The Sheriffs voice wavers, breaks and shatters into an oblivion, "I know you need your pillow to sleep."  
>Wordlessly, Stiles takes it from his father's grip and tosses his bags into the boot of the taxi, before drawing the sheriff into a hug.<p>

And that's all they do for a moment. Father and son. Resting their foreheads against the shoulder of the man that has been there for the other through thick and thin.  
>Stiles is the one to cry first this time. The one to hold on tighter, whose tears dampen the front of his fathers' shirt.<p>

"You're gonna be okay," Stiles dad promises. Brushing the back of his sons head. "You're gonna be everything you need and want to be."

"What about you?" Stiles lips tremble against his fathers' chest, where he can feel the solid thumping of his father's heartbeat. Smiling into Stiles hairline, the Sheriff murmurs, "I'm going to be fine. So long as I get a weekly call, okay? Because if I don't, I'll find you and drag you back with me."

Stiles chuckles, freezing when the taxi driver warns, "if we don't leave now, we'll miss your flight." The child nods, stepping back to get one last look at his dad, and lets his father do the same.  
>And then, with his heart in his throat, the sheriff lets his son go.<br>One finger at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>Hey guys, leave a review if you could - be brutal: if the writing was really boring or whatnot. This chapter itself was a little slow - but it's basically been used as a bridge to the next one. Not sure if you guys are familiar with my 'the stars never stay and neither do you.' but in case you are, I may be leaving that one to the side for a while - I'm not too sure if it's worth continuing. Anyhoo, how's everyone dealing with the teen wolf break?<strong>


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